in your brain,

said the professor.

Let me examine that,

said I.

“Just”

doesn’t resonate.

The evidence, please:

love drugs like heroin.

correlation finds eggs in the hen house

cause and effect chases its tail with enthusiasm

gods spin out of the centrifuge

One thing is evident.

The addiction.

The day is September 18. Another protest is planned against the stoning of Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani. We arrive at Yorkdale Mall in Toronto to find that the subway station is shut down for the weekend. No matter. A shuttle bus takes us to Lawrence where we catch a train to Dundas and Dundas Square. On the train I sit beside a dark woman with a wonderfully coloured head scarf. She is on her way to the Eaton Center to spend a gift card someone gave her. She wishes they’d just given her money instead of a gift card. She doesn’t like having to spend it at stores in the Eaton Center…and what a waste to have so much of it go to HST. She will probably spend it on her grandchildren. She and the friend I am with discover a mutual interest in the Toronto Hospital and they begin trading stories about acquaintances. Who’da thunk? It really is a small world.

We arrive at our destination and emerge into Dundas Square. A bell telephone display is set up in the middle of the square. A young man approaches us about taking part in whatever it is they are doing. “Wait…do I know you?” he says. Turns out he is one of my friend’s facebook friends. A word-jam poet doing his day job.

The demonstration we want, though, is across the street, right in front of the mall entrance. Again, a white sheet is spread across the side walk, markers at the ready for passers-by to add signatures and messages. A man is speaking into a microphone, telling the story of Sakineh, who languishes still in an Iranian prison. She was sentenced to 99 lashes for an “illicit relationship” with two men and then re-sentenced to stoning for adultery, at which point her teen-aged son, who witnessed her lashing, appealed to the international community for help. Since then there has been a stand off between the Iranian government and the rest of the world who has protested the idea of this woman being stoned. The Iranian government repealed the sentence of stoning, then said they’d hang her instead. When the world still protested, they tortured her into confessing (on television) to participating in the murder of her husband. (I guess they thought this would better justify her sentence of hanging.) The world remained unconvinced. More recently, Sakineh has been paraded onto Iranian State television again to tell the world that she deserves her fate. (Right.) And the protest continues.

This demonstration is smaller than the 100 city protest of a few weeks before. But the crowds coming and going in front of the Eaton Center are bigger than the ones that passed in front of the CBC building and quite a few people are stopping to listen and to add their names and messages to the petition. A couple other Canadian-born women (besides my friend and I) have joined the ranks of Iranian-born protesters. They are handing out postcards protesting Ahmadinejad’s participation in the UN and encouraging people to take up markers and sign. My friend takes the microphone and adds her pleas and admonishments to those of the Iranian man who had been speaking before her. I am proud of her…and inspired enough to take my turn at the microphone a little later. I surprise myself with being able to find words to say…though I’m not sure what I say is particularly compelling. Something about the responsibility that we have to exercise our freedom of expression on behalf of people like Sakineh who have been deprived of this freedom.

A short man with grey hair under a black cap approaches me after I speak. He wants to tell me that religion is the cause of all this evil. He thinks we should be protesting religion too. He thinks anyone who believes in God must be stupid. His insistence that I agree with him reminds me a little too much of religious dogmatism. I politely tell him that I respect his point of view but that the conclusions he draws are not obvious to me. He advises me to read “The Age of Reason.” I smile. He accuses me of just smiling to placate him. I tell him I will consider what he has said (and recommended) and that I am smiling because I think there is room for both of us in this world and I am glad that, despite our differences, we are both waving a little paper flag that says “Citizen of the world against stoning.” He stays a while longer.

To one side of the demonstration, three men in skull caps are handing out books explaining Islam. My friend tells me she has spoken to one of them and asked him if he signed our petition. He said yes. I decide to approach another one whose white garb and beard make a very strong impression on me. He seems very serious. I wait until he is finished a lengthy conversation with a (I assume Catholic) gentleman who is giving out rosaries. When I tell the Muslim that I would like one of his booklets so I can better understand Islam he tells me a little of the faith in God that makes Islam meaningful to him. He makes a point of saying that the behaviour of the Islamic regime is not what Islam is really about…but he seems to me a little uncomfortable with our protest. He suggests that we would have more effect if we went and talked to politicians instead. I tell him that I wish I believed that would work, but that, unfortunately, people have to make a lot of noise before anyone listens. And that the protest is also about informing the public. We chat a little longer.

As the protest is winding down, a man with a large poster board proclaiming “Love will heal the world” stands near us. I ask him about the rael.org at the bottom of the poster. He tells me it is an organization that believes love heals and that they are going to spend the next while here giving out free hugs. He is soon joined by two cheerful looking women who proceed to do just that. What the heck. I accept a hearty hug and tell them I wish them well. A man in a wheel chair pulls up a short way away. I don’t talk to him…but I see that a sign on his equipment proclaims that we are being ruled by fear. The web site I can check out is TorontoTruthseekers.com. By this point the protest is over and my friend and I are waiting for our new Iranian friends to come back from loading everything in their car so we can have a coffee together before my friend and I head back home. While we wait, a parade of flag-waving Cannabis party members traipses colourfully down the street on motorbikes.

Over coffee I discover a little more about the courageous people who have dedicated themselves to this protest. One young woman is a recent refuge. She is still waiting to have her case reviewed. I guess that means she could be sent back. And yet she is protesting. A man tells me he is a social worker when he isn’t protesting. He was in grade 7 when the Islamic revolution took place in Iran. He’s been protesting ever since. Many of his friends have been executed…but he has managed to escape. They are decent, kind, and caring and I am happy to be in their company.

The drive home is uneventful. I come home to a lovely pasta dinner.

August 28, 2010, the day of the 100 City Protest; perceptions of an emerging activist

Today was a strange day. Arriving, from out of town, in the crowded parking lot at Yorkdale Mall, a friend and I did battle with shoppers for a place to leave my van. (Not really….but the spaces were certainly scarce!) Stopping for a pee break in a mall washroom, I stood side by side at the sinks with a woman in a feline body suit….skin-tight, lots of orange stripes and big cat ears. Some sort of store promotion going on? A tired looking woman in the tunnel from mall to subway station makes a dispirited request for money as we stride by her. I care. But not enough to stop. There’s somewhere I need to get to. Riding the subway to the CBC building downtown, I keep my home-made placards discretely rolled up. Somehow I just don’t want to draw attention to myself….at least not yet. Emerging from the Union station stairwell, we pass a middle-aged woman holding out pamphlets. The world is ending soon, apparently. And then there are more of them….black T-shirts with large white lettering…something about Jesus and the Bible. There’s a van too….glitzy professional paint job. These ones are primarily young…black, white, Asian….holding some kind of demonstration to warn us about the imminent end of the world (sometime next year, in case you are interested) and the last judgment. And mingling in the crowds, more young people dressed in elaborate costumes. The cat woman at Yorkdale was obviously part of something larger than a store promotion.

Finally we reach our destination. Long strips of white fabric lie stretched on the sidewalk in front of the CBC, waiting for signatures of protest. A table laden with pamphlets and posters and postcards sits in front of a banner proclaiming support for Sakineh Ashtiani…and decrying the practice of stoning in Iran. A number of swarthy-skinned, dark-haired people are handing out information. A microphone is set up. A cry goes out: “What do we want?” The answer is “Freedom.” “When do we want it?” The answer is “Now.” I unroll my placards and hand them to someone at the table. I’ve drawn a picture of an Inukshuk (I am kind of proud of that) with the caption: STONES ARE NOT FOR KILLING. Feeling that it was not enough to say “no” to all the bad stuff (always think positive, right?) I’d made a second placard with a “Please say Yes! to Life, Freedom of speech and expression, Respect for all, Equality for all, and Compassionate justice for all.” They are laid on the sidewalk for passers-by to read, an apolitical statement of my convictions laid out beside the banners proclaiming socialism and communism. I take one of the signs that the organizers have provided. “Stop stoning in Iran. Free Sakineh.” I will carry it for the next three hours as proof that I am an active participant in this protest…just in case my fair, freckled complexion and blond hair make me seem like just a by-stander.

Across the road huge line-ups of people waiting to get into the Metro Toronto Convention Center for the annual Toronto Fan Expo stare curiously at us, a small but vocal crowd. “Stoning- no! Execution – no! Torture – no! Freedom – Yes!!” My voice stands out as one of only a few that has no distinguishable accent.

This year’s Fan Expo promises to be the biggest one yet. Not only does the convention boast the largest masquerade costume contest in Canada, where men and women bring their best fashionable interpretations of characters from each of the represented genres to the stage for prizes and bragging rights, but this year, they’re bringing some serious celebrity heavyweights, including the father of the Marvel Universe, Stan Lee, and ‘A History of Violence’ director David Cronenberg. Oh, and did we mention Summer Glau, James Marsters, Ernest Borgnine and a cast reunion from the ’60s-era ‘Batman’ TV series?

Thus wrote Aaron Broverman for www.moviefone.ca, just a few days ago. Apparently the Fan Expo is “Canada’s largest pop culture convention” and those huge line-ups were there to celebrate our favorite superheroes. A girl walks by in a body suit…a golden helmet on her head…a sparkling mace in her hand. A brave soul in a wolf costume (it is very hot out!) stops, pulls his (or her?) arms out of the front legs of the costume and signs our petition. A representation of the upper part of a woman’s shrouded body is now propped up beside the cloth. Stones painted red dot the pavement around it. Red paint splatters the bowed head.

I see my friend in conversation with a man who has been sitting for some time a short distance down the street. He is not participating, but he is watching. Drivers slow down as they pass. Some of them grin. I meet their eyes. A double decker bus sporting tourists bristles with cameras pointed in our direction. No sign of anyone from the CBC though. “He’s a private investigator,” she told me later. “He thinks there might be people out there making note of who is participating in the protest. He gave me his card. If any one gets threats he said to call him.”

I’m hot. I’m getting tired of standing. My voice is feeling a bit raw. I feel tears welling up in the back of my eyes. How could anyone say such a thing? This is Canada, after all!

A number of police officers check in on the protest…congregating in a clump for a few moments before dispersing again. No apparent trouble here.

I find myself in conversation with a man whose blond hair and blue eyes stand out even more than mine. He’s on his way to buy some new Birkenstocks but he’s taking time out to join the protest for a while first. “Ever been to Iran?” he asks me. “No,” I reply. “I have,” he says, “back when the Shah was in power. It was just as bad then as it is now. They haven’t had a decent government since the 1930s.” He’s an ex-hippy. He likes to have a good time. He’s a humanist too. He spends a lot of energy trying to convince the government to take funding away from religious schools. It’s all that indoctrination. I tell him that I grew up going to Christian schools. “It’s not all bad,” I tell him. A couple of young men in black shirts walk by. They pay no attention to our protest. They don’t stop to sign the petition. I wonder idly what would happen if I reminded them that the man represented on their shirts had single-handedly rescued a woman from stoning by admonishing her attackers with the words “let those of you without sin cast the first stone.” Here they were passing up a great chance to emulate their hero. What would he have to say about that next year when he came back? Instead, I hold up my placard and chant with the others, “Down with Islamist Republic of Iran. Down with sexual apartheid.”

(I said that. Me. Who never says anything. Oh my *** …did I say that? Well why not? I live in Canada. We’re supposed to be a democracy. That means we practice freedom of speech. That means I can say anything. Well, at least, anything that doesn’t promote hatred of my fellow human beings. That wouldn’t be in line with the spirit of free speech. Using freedom of speech to spread hatred would ultimately destroy freedom of speech. That doesn’t make any sense!!)

A good litre of water and sunburn later, the protest winds down. 100 cities (actually…more than that) around the world have organized together to simultaneously protest the abuses of human rights practiced under the current Iranian government, as represented by the case of Sakineh Ashtiani who was initially sentenced to death by stoning for the “crime” of adultery. (It’s gotten a bit more complicated now.) I’m happy to have stood shoulder to shoulder with people who care. I’m sad at all the uncaring. As my friend and I turn to leave, we are accosted with a hug…asked if we are staying in Toronto…told to come back and stay longer. My friend tells him about the investigator. “I escaped execution in Iran. They haven’t got me yet,” he says. I am, again, struck with the courage that I have seen demonstrated here. “It’s an honour to be here supporting your efforts,” I tell him.

Before leaving, I stop to sign the petition myself. “Peace for all. Stop the reign of fear.” We jostle our way back through the crowds of comic book hero worshipers. “Funny, in Iran a costume like that could get you in serious trouble,” I think. The people in black shirts are still persisting. My friend stops to ask one just what they are “going on” about. “October 21st 2011. It’ll be the day of the last judgment,” he replies. The CBC apparently has as little interest in this news as in ours…there is still no sign of them. But my friend promises to mark it on her calendar. On the way home we stop for tea and an iced cappuccino.

Which way next?

This is a reflection I initially did while participating in a series of sessions exploring meditation and spirituality. The questions to be reflected on were:

What is my path? Where does my desire lead? What tempts me off of this path?

I am currently facing a transition in my life that is challenging me to ask these questions of myself yet again. And, looking back at what I wrote a number of months ago, I realize that my answers are much the same. So I am going to edit and publish those reflections on my blog as a way of reminding myself of what I want and how I want to proceed. Here they are:

What is my path?

I don’t know exactly. I know it is a path involving music and creativity. I know it is a path involving a desire to be in the world in a way that is loving and positive and bold. But the specifics of my path don’t seem very clear to me. Because of this I am feeling my way carefully, one bend in the road at a time. At this time I am living my musicianship as a classical musician, music teacher, and writer of songs (among other things.) I have projects that I am trying to pursue. My biggest goal is to finish them and move on to the next one. I try not to think about whether or not they are worth anything to anybody else. My desire is that they will be, but I am coming to understand that a lot of persistence and growth is necessary on my part before I can expect that my creativity will mean much to anyone else. I desire to keep doing, keep creating, keep trying….even though this is often a painful and discouraging process. I am not “larger than life,” but my dreams are. I dream of a world where everyone hears, respects and loves music.   All music. Because music is just such a darn good metaphor for who we are, what we can contribute, what other people have to offer us, and how we can all get along.

I have a dream attached to this metaphor. I dream of helping women in parts of the world where there is little or no encouragement to sing…literally or metaphorically. If singing is a metaphor for finding one’s voice and using it, if singing is about self expression and being unafraid to reveal and act on one’s deepest feelings and desires, if singing is about being seen and heard (whether as soloist or as part of a chorus) so that great music can happen, than I not only want to persist in learning to be a better singer myself….but I want to help others do the same.

That all sounds a little strange, I know.

What tempts me off of this path?

Fear of looking like a fool. Fear of inadequacy. Fear of futility. Fear of being alone in what I believe or how I think. Approaching my dreams and beliefs, acting creatively on them, can feel very frightening. It is so much easier not to think about things too much…to let the distractions of daily life keep me from taking chances.

But, the thought that came to me when I initially explored these thoughts a few months ago was this:

Perhaps if I sit quietly and patiently, holding my fears at bay, I will be able to let the dream approach me, with curiosity and innocence, like an untamed creature, and I will learn that there is nothing to be afraid of after all.

Death of a Wallflower

It no longer serves me

to disappear

to hang back

to watch others dance.

The waiting is over.

It is time to take my place

in the ballroom,

feel the music

and let it move me.

-singinon

This is a poem I wrote recently.  It is called “unsung heroes.”  It is dedicated to the men and women of Afghanistan who are working so hard to bring peace and justice to their war-torn homeland.  May they continue to build schools, educate students (of all ages and genders), produce teachers and doctors, lawyers and politicians, musicians and artists, writers and journalists who can help turn the tide of ignorance and poverty and bring healing to the populace.  And may the rest of the world continue to support them in their efforts.

Unsung heroes

make little noise

as they oil the cogs and wheels

of forward motion.

Those delicate workings

slowly and smoothly

shift, move, animate;

respond

to inquisition and

a sensitive touch.  Ah!

Those feeling the tremors

cannot contain themselves.

It is a compulsion:

the angered scream

the pleasured gasp

A song.

I came across this definition on a poster in an English classroom (while on another of my supply-teaching adventures!)  “That’s it!” I thought to myself as I copied it down.  “That’s what blogging is, for some of us anyway.  It’s our sililoquy.”

Afterall, as the great bard once wrote:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;

If we all have our exits and entrances…why not sililoquys too?

Sililoquys are important.  They reveal feelings, and motives.  They draw the audience into the inner drama of the story, that which feeds the action of the outer drama.  Where would we be without “To be or not to be….?“

I haven’t blogged for a while.  Life is busy.  But I believe that the life I lead is important….that I have a part to play on that great stage that is the world.  That, whatever happens, the show must go on!  (Just for the record,  I believe the same for everyone else too. )  And the script will be more interesting and meaningful with a bit of soliloquizing thrown in…even if the audience is a tad  unresponsive.     So once again,  lapses aside, I shall blog on!

To the rest of you, I say:   “Break a leg!”

I am afraid for her.  And I really hate feeling helpless.

Later the same morning:  The ESL co-ordinator has contacted me to let me know that the computer lab in question was not running today.  I’m not sure why it is not running…but there is no cause for concern at this point.  That’s a relief!!

I found myself thinking today that there is one basic freedom that no one and no thing can take away from any of us, the freedom to fantasize.  The freedom to “dream”  can become very difficult to exercise when life is being cruel…but that doesn’t seem to stop fantasizing.  We all do it to some extent….sometimes even more when life is hard on us.   Maybe that’s because fantasy is just as associated with dark thoughts and feelings as with positive ones.  There is no compulsion to be “realistic” when we fantasize…anything and everything is possible.  And there is not usually a compulsion to act on our fantasies.     Most of us recognize and appreciate the difference between fantasy and reality much the same way we recognize and appreciate the difference in content and intent between a documentary and a Hollywood film.  Understanding the difference, we all live with both reality and fantasy in our thoughts to some extent.

But sometimes we shy away from consciously exercising this most basic of freedoms,  let alone try to better understand it or develop it.   Fantasy can awaken hidden hungers we would rather not know we have.  Or it can disturb us with revelations of the dark side of our character that we would rather not believe exists.  Or it can point out, all too uncomfortably, the discrepancies between what our lives really look like and what we would like them to look like.   This is all scary territory…and we are hesitant…with good reason…to venture there.

I have avoided fantasizing for all of the reasons listed above.  I have allowed myself to dream…but can only allow my imagination to go so far before an admonishing little voice pops up to tell me that I’m not being realistic anymore.  Perhaps permitting myself to fantasize would help me by-pass that voice.  Who, after all, cares whether I am being realistic or not?  What if I allowed myself to really fantasize about the projects I’m working on and the things I hope to accomplish?  What if I was unafraid to expose the discrepancies between what my efforts really look like…and what I could fantasize them  looking like?   What if I allowed my imagination free reign to be as “over the top” and “grandiose” as it pleased”….what would I imagine?  What would my dreams look like then?   Do I dare?  After all, it’s only fantasy!  And what’s wrong with that?

A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them;
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
~ Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–1894)) from ‘The Voiceless’ 1858 ~

Today I’m going to do something different.  I’m going to write my blog as part of my music practice.  Sometimes when I sit at the piano, my thoughts start to flow and I want to write them down…but I often put off doing so.  And before long I’ve forgotten the inspiration I felt while I was playing.  So today, I will end my morning practice a little bit early and let the flow continue onto a different kind of keyboard.

I was just practising the piano part for Beethoven’s “Archduke” trio.  It is such beautiful music.  Much of it is so dreamy and expressive.  But as I played I found myself thinking of all the decisions I have to make to figure out how to do justice to that dreaminess.  Dreamy or not, there are a lot of notes that have to be played very fast…or that jump around on the piano.  It would be easier, especially where there are these passages of technical difficulty, to play more aggressively, more percussively.  But if I allow myself to do this, I will probably end up playing all the right notes, but completely missing the character of the piece and the story it is trying to tell.  And I began to think about Micelangelo’s assertion that he didn’t create his sculptures, he simply released them from the stone.  “Perhaps,” I thought, “there is a parallel here worth exploring.”

Someone once said to me that classical musicians weren’t artists because they didn’t play their own music.  But no one would say that Michelangelo wasn’t an artist…even though he considered himself to be simply revealing what he could see in the stone, not creating.  And I began to think  “what’s the difference?”  There is none.  My “stone” is the set of black notes on the page in front of me.  My work as an artist is to make audible the music that I perceive contained in those notes…music that requires far more perception than simply playing the right notes at the right time.  Michelangelo’s  “sheet music” was the stone in front of him.  His work as an artist was to set free what he saw in that stone so the rest of us could see it too.  There is a double act of artistry here.  The stone was itself already a thing of beauty created by nature, the forces of the universe, or God.  Michael added his own perception to it, saw something more in it and revealed it’s possibilities.  Yes, the music on the page already exists on the page as put there by the composer.  But the performer  adds his or her perception to it, understands that those black dots are not only about pitch and rhythm.  He or she works away at the sounds those pitches produce to reveal the possibilities, the shapes, the expressions, the textures, the tale.  Playing all the right notes at the right time is necessary craftsmanship.  The decisions I make as to how to play all the notes, how to shape the phrases, how to make the transitions from musical thought to musical thought in a meaningful fashion, how to carve out the silences,  not so I create anything new, but so I reveal what is already there with integrity.  This is artistry.